


Miracles

by Jenshih_Blue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenshih_Blue/pseuds/Jenshih_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing the most important thing in his life, and suffering three years of grief, John Watson muses about the one thing he learned to accept—miracles. If only God could perform one more he might believe again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miracles

To find one’s soul mate is not necessarily to find true love. Soul mates are not required to be lovers as one might believe, but often are simply the single soul in the entirety of the universe that compliments another.

For John Watson it took losing his soul mate to realize he’d found them in the first bloody place. Being a doctor he was a man of science to the core, not a personality trapped in flights of fancy, but the day he watched his best friend leap from a roof to his death caused a reevaluation of his outlook on life.

During service to his country, he’d seen things no man should have to see. Hell, he’d done things no man should ever do especially one who’d vowed to protect lives. John Watson was a man of conflicted sides both trained killer and healer. If one were to pass him on the street, he wouldn’t catch the eye in any way out of the ordinary; below average height, average looks, small blonde man with sad eyes, the color of which those passing would never notice.

John had spent the majority of his life as a man few noticed, but then he’d met Sherlock Holmes. His first impression of Holmes had been less than stellar; tall, slender with a wild mop of brunette curls and pale eyes the color of a stormy sea. Always dressed in dark colors, Holmes’ even paler complexion gave him the appearance of a phantom from some Victorian ghost story. To be blunt John cared little for the man and even less when he’d opened his mouth. First impressions were not always right though.

He’d tried his damnedest to dislike the man, create some excuse for his therapist to cease being Holmes’ flat mate. He couldn’t though. There was a child like quality to him although, his barbed tongue and lack of social graces went far beyond childish and into the realm of rudeness. As days melted into weeks and into months, John discovered despite Sherlock’s ability to infuriate and confound him without even trying he cared about the man.

Sherlock could see him.

One could look at a person, but still not see them. John knew the experience of being invisible first-hand and when Sherlock looked at him, it felt as if his soul bared itself for the first time in his life.

For him that had been the first miracle.

Months melted into one another and soon a year had disappeared without John noticing in the least. He spent his time working at the clinic at first and then he found himself spending more time in Sherlock’s company than working there. The excitement of helping (although Sherlock would have never called it that) on consultations with the police became like a drug of sorts. Then there was Mycroft. Meeting Sherlock’s brother had been even more eye opening, than knowing Sherlock.

There was an entire world out there John had never imagined so caught up in his own personal issues he was. It was amazing the lengths Her Majesty’s government would go to in their subterfuge. Mycroft, aloof and amused on some level by John’s ignorance, tried to act as if he cared little for his baby brother, John knew better. He’d learned so much from the way Sherlock looked at the world he was able to see beyond the mask Mycroft wore and recognize the concern beneath.

That had been the second miracle.

Those last few months, before Sherlock’s death, were the most telling for John if he’d but paid closer attention to the details. The man he’d believed insufferable and emotionless, a childish genius who cared little for society or its niceties, had learned from him as well even if he would have been hard-pressed to admit it.

Deep inside John had known part of the man's problem was his inability to connect to anyone. Not that he blamed him. Sherlock was unique, different than anyone John had ever met, and he had met a great number of people in his life. What it boiled down to was Sherlock would never be able to have what most considered a normal connection with anyone because he wasn’t normal, not that being abnormal was a bad thing. It was simply a thing most people could not get past. The idea someone could read one so completely within a few seconds and quote their life story moments after meeting them scared the bloody hell out of most.

Part of surviving life was its intricate web of white lies and privacy neither of which Sherlock understood or gave a damn about in the least. It was in those last few months that the man who felt utterly alone, a singularity in a world of duplicity had met another much like himself. It was an amusing stroke of fate this person happened to be one of the sexiest women John had ever had the pleasure of meeting—Irene Adler.

Irene was by profession a dominatrix, an effeminate version of Sherlock. She’d confounded and on some level irritated Sherlock to the point John and Mycroft agreed she was a liability. If John hadn’t known him as well as he did he would have believed Sherlock was falling for the woman. Of course, Sherlock showed no interest in sex on any level other than as an oddity. John wouldn’t have been surprised to discover he was a virgin, especially considering some of the comments Mycroft had made.

After sorting the near international disaster, Mycroft informed John that Irene was dead, executed. Upon delivering the news to Sherlock he’d been surprised by his friend’s reaction. In particular, his insistence he needed her phone. Some part of John suspected Mycroft hadn’t managed to eliminate Irene as easily as he boasted. The tiny voice in the back of his skull snorted at the thought Mycroft had sorely underestimated his brother. For some bizarre reason he believed Irene was alive and Sherlock had something to do with it. If John were right he was quite sure, he would run into Irene Adler again. The bad thing about that was discovering he might be wrong about how Sherlock felt when he announced to her—

John turned from the flat’s window and the snow falling from the night sky. He couldn’t finish the thought. This time of year always bothered him. Once upon a time, he’d enjoyed the holidays, but now they seemed a precursor to memories and an anniversary he’d rather forget. He knew Mrs. Hudson worried about him in the way only a mother could worry. Over the past three years, she’d refused to ignore his pleas that he was fine. Moving across the parlor, he stared at the hideous wallpaper of a bygone era and in particular at the huge smiley face created when Sherlock had discovered himself bored. He found himself smiling at the memory despite not being amused at the time.

He’d meant what he said that day in the churchyard as he stood over his friend’s final resting place. He’d been mulling over all the miracles Sherlock had managed in the short time he’d been with him. Of course, Sherlock would have sniffed and rolled his eyes at him in that way he had.

John, please, miracles do not exist. Miracles are imaginative constructs created by small, uneducated minds.

Perhaps, Sherlock didn’t believe in imaginative constructs, but John had learned to believe. Standing in the shadow of the one person who’d really seen him in his life, John had learned they did exist and the man who didn’t believe was the creator of all the miracles he’d witnessed. All he’d asked for was one final miracle as he’d stood there, throat tight with grief, and heart breaking.

It wasn’t to be.

It seemed God had failed him once more after almost drawing him back to the flock of his believers. After all what kind of god would hand a man his soul mate, pull him from nerve-wracking darkness only to force him to watch his mate die.

“John?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the door, wrapped in coat and scarf, and fingers clutching a well-worn rosary. The corner of his mouth quirked in a half-smile as he thrust his hands in his pockets, an attempt to hide the tremble in them. Three years had made its mark on her as well. There were a few more gray strands in her hair and perhaps a few more lines, tonight though she looked hopeful which neither of them had in a long time.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

Her fingers began to rub along the wooden beads of the rosary as she stared at some point over his left shoulder. “They’re having a midnight mass over at St. Marylebone and I thought perhaps…” her voice trailed off as she finally met his eyes.

“No, thank you.” He replied and returned to the window.

"It’s just that…well, I worry about you.”

John focused on the street below, fingers tracing patterns in the frosted glass. “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you, dear? Every since…”

He turned, smile firmly in place. “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. Please, do go and enjoy the mass.”

She offered him a quick nod and turned to go. At the door, she paused and took a deep breath. “You do know, John, despite his ways Mr. Holmes cared for you more than any other human.”

“I know.” He replied as she slipped out, her boot heels clicking on the stairs. “That’s part of the problem.”

#

It was around three am when John, unable to sleep, and restless as he always found himself at this time of the year decided a cup of chamomile might help. Wrapped in his dressing gown he headed to the kitchen, walking past the one room he tried to ignore. He hadn’t stepped foot in there since the funeral. It was just as Sherlock had left it and even knowing he should move on, John couldn’t help to hope it had all been an elaborate hoax. Of course, if it had Sherlock would have come out of hiding by now—wouldn’t he have?

As he waited for the kettle to heat, he lingered at the kitchen window staring out into the darkness. Mrs. Hudson had returned perhaps fifteen minutes ago and the building was silent as were the streets, but rather than being comforting, the silence dragged on his nerves. Even after all this time, he expected Sherlock to appear in his doorway. He imaged his friends expression as he rambled on about some oddity normal people would find mind-boggling. And then there were times he thought perhaps the eerie notes of the violin now untouched and silent in the corner of the parlor would suddenly fill the apartment. Nothing ever happened, but some distant corner of John’s mind held out hope if he were dead perhaps he would find some way to speak to him from the other side if there were such a thing.

The whistle of the kettle caused him to jump as it blasted through the quiet. John couldn’t help laugh at the absurdity of it all. It wasn’t as though he and Sherlock had been lovers—despite the media and numerous people, believing two single men of a certain age living together was questionable. He’d always found it odd people jumped to the entire gay conclusion.

John was about to turn his attentions to the howling kettle when he caught a glimpse of movement in the street below. At first, he believed it was wishful thinking, but then he blinked and the figure was still there, half-hidden in the thick fall of snow across the way in a shadowy doorway. He turned shutting off the flame beneath the kettle and told himself in as stern a manner as possible he was suffering from exhaustion. He forced himself to finish what he’d started although a part of him wanted to look again.

By the time, he was adding milk and sugar, the part of him wanting to look again had won out. There was no way he would see anything he chided himself. It had simply been a trick of the eyes, pareidolia the ability of the human brain to fool one’s eyes. He lifted the cup of tea, blew over the surface gently and then chuckled. Sherlock would have been proud of him. Turning to the window, he lifted the cup for a sip, and dropped it to the floor, porcelain shattering into hundreds of sharp bits and hot tea splashing on the cuffs of his pajamas. He stepped closer unaware of the pain as the bits of porcelain punctured his bare feet.

Turning from the window, he stumbled through the flat and out the door, making such a clatter he was sure Mrs. Hudson would believe the roof was caving in. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn to be honest.

John hit the door at the bottom of the stairs nearly killing himself in his attempt to unlock it. Hands shaking he managed get the lock and chain at last tumbling out into the snowy night, heart pounding against his ribs like a herd of elephants. It took him a moment to orient himself and then he was running, bare feet be damned, down the street and to the nearby alley. When he arrived at the mouth of the alley, he was surprised to discover the figure was still there, cloaked in darkness, but he would have recognized it anywhere.

Tall, slender, and coat hem swirling around long legs in the wind, hands thrust in coat pockets, a mop of dark curls stirring in the same wind. There was no doubt in his mind of who was standing there. Caught between relief and fury like nothing he’d ever experienced, John headed down the alley, numb to the winter cold surrounding him and leaving a trail of bloody footprints as he went.

The figure never moved. It stood tall and imposing in the shadows until John arrived a mere foot or two from the man.

Pale stormy eyes met his and then lips parted, warm breath condensing in the glacial wind, and a familiar voice spoke his name. “John.”

There had been numerous ways, John Watson had imagined a miraculous reunion, but none had even come close to what happened. For a split second, they stood facing one another, his head tipped skyward and flakes of snow dusting his lashes. He took in the face looking down at him, every detail as he recalled except a bit thinner perhaps and smudges of exhaustion beneath those eyes that had haunted him for so long.

Drawing back his fist, John punched Sherlock Holmes square in the nose.

Sherlock stumbled back under the strength of three years of grief. He lifted one gloved hand and touched his upper lip, blood smearing across fair skin. Eyes focusing back on his friend, Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “You punched me.”

Eyes narrowed John cradled his hand sure he’d broken it, but the pain could not drown the fury burning in his eyes. “What did you expect you bloody sod—a welcome home hug? You let me believe you were dead—for three years! You let me bury an empty coffin!” his voice increased in volume as all the pain began to pour out.

“John, please do calm down.”

“Calm down?” His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You son of bitch I thought you’d killed yourself! And it wasn’t just me now was it? Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly…”

“My brother and Molly knew.”

John blinked unsure he’d heard what he had. “Excuse me?”

Stepping closer, Sherlock repeated himself. “My brother and Molly knew, John. I required their assistance to create my suicide.”

The idea Molly had known was surprising, Mycroft made sense though. John stumble back as Sherlock reached out to touch him. “Don’t…don’t you dare! I grieved for you…”

Before he could escape back to the flat, Sherlock was pulling him into an inept attempt at an embrace. John wanted so much to fight him, but the idea of his friend being alive won out. Pressing his face into the warm wool of Sherlock’s coat the tears began to flow as the familiar scent hit him. Beneath his cheek, Sherlock’s body was stiff and through the tears, he began to laugh.

“I hate you.” He huffed out arms encircling the other man’s waist. Sherlock’s hand patted his back in a clumsy show of comfort and John laughed again before pulling back to look up in his friend’s eyes. “I do hate you more than you’ll ever know you bastard.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tipped in amusement. “But you’ll forgive as you always do, John.”

Swiping at his face, John snorted. “I should punch you again on principle alone.”

"If it would make you feel better then I suppose…”

“Oh, do shut up! If anyone deserves to punch you more it would be Mrs. Hudson although, I can’t imagine her doing so.”

“Then shall we go find out?”

“Did you just make a joke, Sherlock?”

“Perhaps.” His eyes sparkled as they headed back to the flat.

John was furious still, but it felt good to have Sherlock back from the dead.

“Are you wearing my dressing gown?” Sherlock eyed him as they continued walking.

“So what if I am?”

“Simply curious is all. If it is I will need it back you know.”

John’s laughter rang out in the crisp winter air. Perhaps, God wasn’t such a bastard after all. He’d given him one last miracle although this was the only one he’d ever prayed for. Granted it was an inelegant, frustrating miracle, but a miracle nevertheless.

~Finis~


End file.
